A Goose Is A Goose: A Festive Meal, in three courses
by dust on the wind
Summary: It's never a good idea to make friends with your Christmas dinner.
1. Vorspeise

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

 _Cover image: Henri-Paul Motte (1846-1922), "Les oies du Capitole" (detail)_

* * *

Of course, the idea of buying a goose for Christmas dinner originated with Corporal Hinkelmann. This should have been warning enough for Karl to have no part of it.

There were two problems with Hinkelmann. The first was his imagination, which was just too active for an enlisted man; the second was his entirely inexplicable confidence in his own culinary abilities. The truth was, he'd been assigned as head cook in the officers' mess partly because he was rumoured to have a way with pigs' feet, but mostly because of his incompetence in every other area of military service.

Even leaving all these matters aside, it was wise to be cautious, since the only place Hinkelmann was likely to get a fresh goose was from one of his shady black market contacts.

So when Sergeant Schultz sidled up to Karl, who was on patrol in the prisoners' exercise yard, and told him a share in Hinkelmann's _Weihnachtsgans_ was available for an investment of only a few marks, Karl's first instinct was to claim exemption on vegetarian grounds. But it didn't pay to offend the sergeant of the guard by being too blunt; better to hedge a little, avoid making any promises, and hope the whole idea would just go away.

However, Karl couldn't resist asking the one question he knew he shouldn't: "How will it be cooked?"

"Roasted, of course," replied Schultz, his face brightening in anticipation, "with onions, carrots, thyme and bay leaf, and served with _Bratäpfel_ and red cabbage."

It sounded so good! Just like the roast goose Karl's grandmother had served up every Christmas, except Oma had flavoured hers with marjoram instead of thyme. Even though it was years ago, for a moment Karl could almost taste the rich, tender meat, the sharpness of the apples and the clear aromatic juniper berries in the cabbage. It took some effort for him to steel himself to further resistance.

"Five marks is a lot of money, Sergeant," he said.

"You think a good fat goose can be bought for _pfennige_?" Schultz uttered a scornful grunt. "You don't get nothing for nothing, especially in wartime. And that's another thing, the war. What good is money, when we might not live to see another Christmas? Take it from me, Langenscheidt, you should make the most of every chance of a good meal, because it might be your last."

"Yes, sergeant," mumbled Karl, too timid to point out that for soldiers like them, assigned as guards in the toughest prisoner of war camp in Germany, the dangers of war were actually pretty far away.

"So, shall I tell Hinkelmann you are in?" Schultz's head was nodding in encouragement, and Karl felt his resolve ebbing away. Even if the cost was exorbitant and the provenance questionable, and even if Hinkelmann wasn't much of a cook, a goose was still a goose.

"I am in," said Karl.

Schultz beamed with satisfaction. " _Wunderbar_! Oh, it will be such a fantastic meal. Of course, it will have to be kept secret from the other guards, and the prisoners, and especially the Kommandant. The only ones who know about it are you and me and Hinkelmann, and Sergeant Kristman, and Max and Moritz from the officers' mess, and the boys in the motor pool, and the quartermaster, and the quartermaster's clerk. So not a word to anyone else."

It occurred to Karl that if Hinkelmann could feed so many hungry men with one goose, it would be a Christmas miracle, and that at five marks a head somebody, somewhere, was making a substantial profit on the whole affair, but he couldn't withdraw now.

"Oh, and by the way," Schultz added, "Hinkelmann needs the money right away. He has to pay his supplier in advance."

The approach of a couple of prisoners brought the conversation to an end, and Schultz, with a consciously nonchalant air, shouldered his rifle and waddled off. Karl, being on duty, stayed where he was, his face burning with embarrassment at the clearly audible comments of the prisoners:

"What do you suppose the dirty _Boche_ are up to now?"

"No bleedin' idea. But whatever it is, I bet it's dodgy."

The _Engländer_ was probably right. Karl had a feeling Hinkelmann's scheme was somehow going to get them all into trouble. All the same, as he contemplated the prospect of a Christmas dinner of roast goose with apples, he told himself it would be worth it.

Hinkelmann didn't waste any time. Only a few days later, on his return from a supply run to Hammelburg, he parked the lorry behind the officers' mess, unloaded the contents, and sent his kitchen hands Max and Moritz – nobody could ever remember their real names – to summon any other syndicate members who weren't otherwise engaged. As it happened, Karl was once again on patrol in the yard; easy enough for him to divert his regular beat when he saw Schultz hurrying towards the mess kitchen. He entered almost on the sergeant's heels, to find Hinkelmann, his two acolytes, Sergeant Kristman and the quartermaster's clerk, all standing around a large wooden packing case.

As Karl joined the circle, Hinkelmann held up his hands. "All right, I admit it's not exactly what I expected…"

"Why? What is the matter?" demanded Schultz.

Hinkelmann gestured towards the box. "It's the goose. My supplier seems to have misunderstood the order, or maybe my instructions weren't clear…"

A loud, angry thud from inside the box interrupted him. By reflex, Karl stepped back, then blushed and glanced at his comrades. He needn't have been embarrassed; Kristman was halfway to the door, and the quartermaster's clerk had taken refuge behind the ample shelter of Schultz.

"Don't!" squeaked Max. But it was too late; Moritz had already undone the catch which held the box closed. The front panel fell with a clatter, and their prospective Christmas feast came waddling forth.

It stopped right in the middle of the kitchen, fixed a beady, reptilian eye on the cook, then stretched its neck and gave its wings a good flapping. Kristman retreated even further.

"Well," said Hinkelmann, breaking the petrified silence, "at least it's fresh."

The goose swivelled its head to peer at him, uttering a menacing hiss; then, apparently wanting to make its opinion know in a more direct manner, launched an unprovoked attack on the hapless Moritz, who gave a girlish shriek, tried to leap out of danger whilst simultaneously fending off the vicious beak threatening his most treasured attributes, and cannoned into Max. As the pair of them fell in a heap on the floor, the bird looked around for the nearest escape route, only to find its path blocked by an oversized obstacle in the shape of Sergeant Schultz. It ruffled its feathers, clearly prepared to wreak instant and final destruction.

Schultz boggled, and dropped his rifle. "G-g-guhhh... g-g-guhhh... g-g-guhhh..."

The sound acted on Karl in the most unexpected way. He'd never been particularly plucky in a crisis, nor was he by any means fond of Schultz; but that incoherent whimper sent him forward, without thinking, to place himself between the goose and its intended victim.

"Oh, you'll make it angry!" wailed the quartermaster's clerk.

But the bird, after a few heart-stopping seconds, uttered a soft, inquisitive murmur, waggled its rear end, and tilted its head to study this new object of interest. Karl hesitated, then held out a tentative hand, and giggled as the goose nibbled at it, very gently. It tickled.

" _Um Gottes Willen_!" whispered the quartermaster's clerk. He sounded as though he'd just witnessed a miracle.

"I think it likes you, Karl," observed Hinkelmann, watching with interest. "Isn't that sweet? You must be the one to kill it."

Karl, fully absorbed in his new acquaintance, barely heard him. "He just wants to be friends. Oh, you're a good goose, aren't you? See, he...what did you say?"

Hinkelmann shrugged. "Well, I can't cook it like that, can I? It needs to be... prepared..."

"And nobody else can get close enough," added Kristman. He had crept a few steps nearer, eliciting another warning hiss.

"But...but I can't..." Karl faltered.

"Well, of course not. Not here, anyway," said Hinkelmann. "It might attract attention. You'll have to take it out into the woods where you won't be heard."

"Oh, no! No, it's impossible. How could I possibly..?" Karl couldn't say it; but Hinkelmann could.

"Kill it? Shoot it, with your rifle."

"Between the eyes," added Moritz, with a malevolent gleam in his eye.

"Or bayonet it," added Max.

"Wring its neck."

"How about poisoning it?"

"No," said Schultz, holding up his hand. "Nobody will want to eat a poisoned goose."

There was a moment of silence, then Hinkelmann shrugged. "In that case, Karl, you must get an axe, and chop its head off."

At that very moment, the goose had turned its head to stare at Hinkelmann with what appeared to be an air of quizzical curiosity. It was too much.

"Nobody is going to chop his head off." Anger swelled up in Karl's breast. He looked Hinkelmann right in the eye before sweeping a defiant gaze around the rest of the syndicate. "Nobody is going to hurt this goose. I won't have it."

An astonished silence fell across the group. Karl felt himself blushing under their wide-eyed scrutiny, but he squared his shoulders and held his ground; at least, until Hinkelmann gave a shrug, and said, "All right, Karl. But you'll have to explain it to the boys in the motor pool. They're going to be very disappointed."

Instantly, the bubble burst. Karl could feel himself shrinking in stature. "The...the boys in the motor pool..."

"Yes, they're really looking forward to a wonderful Christmas meal."

"It's true," said Schultz. "It's all you hear them talking about."

"And they've paid five marks each. They'll be really upset about it. It could get ugly."

Kristman gave an uneasy laugh. "Good luck, Karl. I wouldn't like to be the one to tell them."

"Uh...well..." Karl's voice trailed off. The goose, now quite docile, nibbled at his hand again. "Can't you give them their money back?"

Hinkelmann rolled his eyes, and blew out his cheeks. "You will have to discuss that with my supplier. But I warn you, he doesn't like giving refunds. Not good for business." He regarded the unhappy Karl with a fair assumption of sympathy. "Of course, if you really feel strongly about it, you could always pay the motor pool boys back out of your own pocket."

"And the rest of us, as well," added the quartermaster's clerk. "That's only fair."

Karl did the calculations in his head, accounting for his meagre savings as well as his pay for the foreseeable future. Then he looked down into the goose's eyes, and sighed. "I won't use an axe," he said.

Ten minutes later, Sergeant Schultz marched up to the gate nearest to the mess kitchen. He eyed the two guards, both new men, with a degree of scorn. " _Achtung_!" he bellowed. "What do you think you are doing?"

"G-g-guarding the gate, Sergeant," stammered one of them.

"Oh? Is that so?" When he felt like it, Schultz could be quite intimidating. "You think this is an easy job, do you? You think keeping the prisoners from escaping is simple? You think – Eyes front! Pay attention when I'm talking to you!"

His two victims did their best to comply, while behind them Karl, followed by his goose and accompanied by Sergeant Kristman, stole towards the gate, eased it open and slipped out. As they made their way into the woods, they could still hear the voice of Schultz, as he warmed to his role. "Let me remind you, this is the toughest prisoner of war camp in the whole of Germany! So shape up! Chest out! Heads up! Eyes front!"

Kristman stopped after a little while. "We should be far enough now. I'll wait over there while you...you know, Karl...take care of things." He was not very happy about being here, but it had been decided that someone had to go along to keep Karl up to the mark, and Kristman had drawn the short straw.

Karl gave him a pleading look, but he was already retreating to a safe distance.

The goose regarded his executioner with dark, inscrutable eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," said Karl. "I can't help it. You are a goose, which means at this time of year... I promise, it won't hurt. Oh, please, _don't_ look at me like that."

Shortly afterwards, Kristman, waiting anxiously, heard a single rifle shot.

"Karl?" he called, peering between the trees. For almost a minute, he waited. Then Karl emerged from the dimness, carrying nothing but his rifle.

"Where is it? What happened?" asked Kristman, staring.

"I missed," said Karl. He blushed, thinking he could see a hint of skepticism in Kristman's eye, and added hastily, "He moved his head, just when I pulled the trigger, and I missed. And...and he ran away – I mean, he flew – I mean, when the rifle went off, he...well, anyway, he escaped. I would have gone in pursuit, but I didn't see which way he went."

"Maybe we should let loose the dogs."

"No – no, it's too late. He's probably halfway to Switzerland by now." Karl went even redder. He was not very good at telling lies, and Kristman was sure to become suspicious.

But Kristman, after one searching look, merely shrugged. "We're going to have some explaining to do," he said. "At least, you are. Come on, we'd better go and tell them what happened."

Karl followed the sergeant back to camp. He was not looking forward to the reception awaiting him there. And yet, there was an unintended spring in his step, and a sense of peace in his heart. He couldn't feel ashamed of himself for turning his rifle to the treetops at the last second, and letting his goose go free.

Even if it took him the rest of the war to pay back the rest of the syndicate, it was worth it.

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _Sergeant Kristman appears in "Anchors Aweigh, Men of Stalag 13" (Season 1). The spelling of his name is as shown in the episode credits. Corporal Hinkelmann is mentioned, but never seen, in "An Evening of Generals" (Season 3)._


	2. Hauptgericht

"Klink has a bottle of Armagnac hidden away in his quarters. All I need is that, and some prunes and almonds, and I'll be ready to turn that goose into a work of art," said LeBeau. He was sitting cross-legged on the table in the middle of Barracks 2. His eyes were full of dreams, and as he finished speaking, he kissed his fingers.

"Well, if you want my opinion..." Newkirk ignored the expressive Gallic snort which greeted this, and kept talking: "...the only proper way to have roast goose is with sage and onion stuffing. Then we could have the prunes with a bit of custard for afters, and the Armagnac straight out of the bottle."

"Sage and onion." LeBeau's tone could not have been more contemptuous if he had been facing his English adversary across the field at Agincourt.

Colonel Hogan glanced from one man to the other over his mug of coffee. "Well, it was good enough for Edward Lear," he said.

Newkirk gave voice to a chuckle. "You know, during the last war, my granny used to cook vegetable marrows filled with sage and onion stuffing. So she told me, anyway. She called it a vegetable goose. Said the recipe came from Mrs Beeton."

"And you can always trust Mrs Beeton," added Hogan. "But let's not forget something else the lady's supposed to have said – first, catch your hare. Or in this case, your goose. Where was it you saw it, Kinch?"

"In the woods, towards Schmeckhof," replied Kinch.

"If it was anyone but you, Kinch, I wouldn't believe it." LeBeau shrugged his shoulders. "Geese don't usually live in the woods, and it's miles from the nearest pond."

"Probably did a runner from one of the local farms," said Newkirk. "Spot of bad luck for the farmer, but it might work out nicely for us." He paused to light a cigarette, and to think the matter over. "We'll have to build a trap for it. Could be a tricky bit of engineering, that."

Carter, who was sitting on his bunk cleaning his boots, piped up at this: "I made a rabbit trap once."

"Oh, yes, we all remember how that turned out. Once you looked that rabbit in the eye, it was all over as far as cooking it was concerned." Newkirk waved an admonitory finger round the barracks. "Take my word for it, unless you want the goose for a family pet instead of Christmas dinner, keep Carter right out of it."

Carter looked a little hurt, but he didn't argue the point; although this might only have been because just then Walters came in from the yard, where he had been keeping watch on the activities of the Kommandant.

"Klink's just about to head off to town for the big Christmas lunch at the Hauserhof, with the other _Luftstalag_ Kommandants," he reported. "You want to see him off, Colonel?"

"Not this time. I'll have to pay a call on him when he gets back. If he picks up any gossip over the lunch table, I'll have a better chance of getting it out of him while he's still a little tipsy. But this close to Christmas, twice in one day is a bit more Klink than I can stand. He doesn't improve on acquaintance."

"It's been a long year, Colonel," observed Kinch. "Not just for us, either. Some of the guards are looking pretty fed up. You take Langenscheidt, now..."

"Yeah, what's Langenscheidt's problem, anyway?" asked Carter. "He's been going round the last couple of days looking like he's been kicked in the pants by the whole of the 3rd Panzer Division."

"Maybe he woke up one morning and realised he's German," said LeBeau. "Who cares? So, _mon Colonel_ , this goose...can we?"

Hogan regarded him with a half-smile. "Okay, why not? It's been quiet round here lately, so you shouldn't run into any trouble. As long as nothing comes up before lights out, you can go out tonight for a goose hunt."

LeBeau's eyes brightened. He jumped off the table, and gave Newkirk a friendly shove; and with Carter in tow, they went outside to plan their campaign.

"Colonel, are you sure this is a good idea?" asked Kinch.

"Maybe not. But it'll keep 'em out of mischief for one night. You know what they get like when they're bored, and with Burkhalter off to Berchtesgaden for Christmas, Hochstetter in Berlin, and the bad weather last week, there isn't much to keep them occupied. And you never know, we might get a meal out of it." Hogan finished his coffee. "But, you know what, Kinch? Somehow, I don't think the goose has anything to worry about."

Shortly after lights out, the hunting party assembled at the foot of the emergency tunnel exit. Newkirk and LeBeau were dressed in black, and they had daubed their faces with soot, as usual for night missions.

"I still think I should come along," said Carter, in an injured tone.

"Sorry, Carter," replied Newkirk airily, "but we can't risk having you make friends with our Christmas dinner. Thanks for the butterfly net, though. It'll come in handy."

He made an extravagant swipe with the implement in question, which Carter had made during the afternoon; not precisely a butterfly net, but built on the same principle, with a long handle and a triangular frame made of salvaged wire and wood, this supporting a large bag fashioned out of an old parachute.

They had tossed a coin for who got to use it. Newkirk had provided the coin. The outcome had been entirely predictable.

"You keep waving that thing around, and the Krauts are sure to spot us in the woods," said LeBeau. Deprived of the chance to wield the butterfly net, he had come up with an alternative plan; he would sneak up on the bird from behind, fling a blanket over its head, and pin it down with his own diminutive body. What he would do once he'd caught it was still undecided, but he was sure he'd think of something.

"Let's go," he said, and with the blanket slung over his shoulder, he started up the ladder. Newkirk followed, and if he found the butterfly net an encumbrance when it came to scrambling out of the exit, he certainly wasn't going to admit it.

"Which way was it again?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, once they'd reached the safety of the woods

"Kinch said he saw the goose at the edge of the pines, close to the Schmeckhof road," replied LeBeau. He was surprised at how keenly he was looking forward to the chase, although privately he had his own doubts about the chances of success. The pine forest along the Schmeckhof road was particularly dense, and there would be plenty of places for a bird to hide. All the same, the hunt would be fun.

By mutual accord, and because caution whenever outside the wire had grown into a habit with both men, they made their way through the woods in silence until they reached their goal. The pine trees grew very close together here, close enough for the lower branches to form an interlocking puzzle which seemed almost impenetrable; but in the half light of a waning moon a few narrow paths could be made out.

"It looks like hard going," said LeBeau, peering into the undergrowth.

Newkirk considered. "We'd best split up. You go in and flush the bird out. I'll wait here, and as soon as it pops into sight, I'll bag it."

"Why can't you flush it out?"

"Because I've got the net. I'd look a right Charlie trying to get through that lot with a bag on the end of a five-foot pole, wouldn't I?"

LeBeau grumbled under his breath. But he had prior experience of Newkirk's ability to defend even the most tenuous of logic. In this case, unless he could be convinced to give up his hold on the net, the Englishman was right.

 _I still have the blanket_ , thought LeBeau, squaring his shoulders and starting off on the clearest looking path. He could take that bird himself. He didn't need any help, especially not from an Englishman with an oversized butterfly net. As he picked his way through the maze of trees, scratching himself on spiky twigs and catching his feet on fallen limbs and exposed roots, he resolved that the honour of capturing the goose would be his.

After a while, the woods opened out a little, and he drew in a deep breath as he found himself entering a small clearing. He took a few seconds to orient himself. The road must be down there somewhere, behind those younger sapling trees; closer than he had thought. Even though there wasn't usually much traffic between Hammelburg and Schmeckhof, it would be safer not to go further.

He turned around, seeking another path through the trees, and froze on the spot. The goose was there, right in front of him.

It didn't seem to have noticed he was there. Slowly, LeBeau drew the blanket from his shoulder and held it in front of him, while he advanced on stealthy feet.

"I still don't understand why you're so cross, Hans."

The voice, clear as a bell and speaking German, rang across the clearing. Without even thinking, LeBeau dived for cover between the pines. Immediately, the criss-crossing branches caught hold of him, snagging his clothing and trapping his limbs. He managed to twist himself around and, peering through a filter of pine needles, saw two men come into view from the direction of the road. There was just enough moonlight for him to identify their uniforms, and his blood chilled in his veins.

 _Just what we need_ , he thought. _A Christmas visit from the SS_.

"I'm not cross. You know I never get cross. I just think it's a bit of a comedown, that's all," one of them was saying. "I mean, two seasoned, experienced, battle-hardened soldiers like us – well, like me, anyway – it's hardly the best use of manpower is it?"

"So, you'd rather be back at the front, would you? Wading through snowdrifts four feet deep, the wind ripping through the holes in our coats, and the Russians chucking rocks at our heads because they've run out of bullets? Because, frankly, Hans, I don't really miss it."

Hans took a few steps forward, his hands behind his back. "This is all your fault, Erich. You know that, don't you?"

"Are we going to start on that again?" Erich gave an exasperated sigh. "For the last time, it is not my fault we got transferred. All I did was to suggest that _Gruppenführer_ Hügel's recurring laryngitis might clear up if he didn't spend so much of his time shouting at people."

"He's a _Gruppenführer_. They're meant to shout. It's part of the job."

"Well, I think it's a bit over the top. It sets a bad example to the men under his command. They're all a bit shouty in the SS, when you think about it. Even you, Hans."

"I don't..." Hans paused, then moderated his tones. "I don't shout. Although God knows, I have good reason to. Look, let's just get this over with. That one will do." He pointed at a stunted-looking sapling.

"Really? You don't think it's rather..."

"What?"

"Nothing." Erich hesitated before going on. "But we want it to look nice. Even if you think it's beneath your dignity..."

"You mean, fetching the tree for the headquarters Christmas party? Coming all the way out here with a hatchet, at this time of night, because you wouldn't leave the office until you'd done all your filing? Bringing the damned thing back on the roof of a staff car? Yes, Erich, it is beneath my dignity, just a little."

There was a brief silence, during which LeBeau paused in his attempts to disentangle himself. He was bathed in perspiration. The end of a broken branch was digging into his back, and he had pins and needles in his left leg. He couldn't take much more of this. But the last thing he wanted was for the snap of a twig to betray his presence.

"Hans," said Erich at last, "is this about your wife's brother again?"

"Don't get me started. Iron Cross, second class, and for what? All he does is drive a tank around in the desert. And what do I get after a year of freezing my arse off on the Russian steppes? Nothing."

"Maybe you'll get a chance to earn an Iron Cross here. First class, even."

"And just how am I going to do that?"

"Well, I don't know..." Erich waved vaguely in the direction of Stalag 13. To LeBeau, it almost seemed the German was pointing right at him. "Maybe you can apprehend an escaping prisoner of war, or ...or break up a band of saboteurs, or track down a spy network."

 _Or all three, at once, right now_ , thought LeBeau.

Hans didn't seem impressed. "I'd rather blow up a tank," he replied dourly.

There was a crack of breaking pine wood from just behind LeBeau. Both SS men turned toward the noise. "What was that?" hissed Erich.

Hans drew his pistol from its holster. "Who's there? Come out, with your hands up."

LeBeau held his breath. He couldn't move, even if he wanted to. The two Germans continued to stare in his direction.

"Come out, or I will shoot," bellowed Hans.

Erich winced. "You're shouting again."

"Oh, shut up..." Hans began, turning on him. His gaze went past Erich, and after a moment, he said, "Is that a goose?"

"It looks like a goose," replied Erich cautiously.

LeBeau blinked the sweat from his eyes. He'd forgotten all about the goose. But there it was, a few feet away from the SS men, looking at them.

"What on earth is it doing here?" said Erich.

"Does it matter? It'll make a good dinner, anyway." And Hans aimed his pistol at the bird's head.

What happened next, happened so fast that LeBeau was never quite sure he'd even seen it. One moment the goose was on the point of being shot; the next second Hans staggered back under the terrifying attack of a fury of wings, webbed feet and wickedly snapping beak. Erich uttered a squeal of alarm and raised the hatchet.

"Keep still, Hans, and I'll hit it," he called out.

"You'll hit _me_ , you moron! Get off, you..." With a desperate effort, Hans threw off his assailant. But the goose, recovering its balance, shifted its weight from one foot to the other for a couple of seconds, then went for his knees.

"Where's the gun?"

"I dropped it – _Scheiße_!" The goose had changed the line of its attack, upwards, and Hans doubled over in pain.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the attack was over.

"Where...where did it go?" quavered Erich.

His comrade was beyond answering immediately. He gestured towards the road, and made a sort of wheezing noise.

"Should we...?"

Hans nodded. "Help me up," he croaked.

Erich hauled him to his feet. "What about the tree?" he asked

"To hell with it."

As the two of them headed back the way they had come, one of them limping conspicuously, the other glancing anxiously from side to side, Hans's voice drifted back: "And don't tell my wife about this."

Alone at last, LeBeau put in an extra effort and dragged himself clear of the branches. He was scratched and bruised, and his legs were numb. But he was safe. He looked around for the goose. It was nowhere to be seen.

"It wouldn't be right," he murmured, and he set off back towards Stalag 13.

His mates would be disappointed, but for a man of honour there was no choice. It really wouldn't be right to cook the goose which had just saved his life.

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _Hans and Erich are not original characters. I borrowed them from Mitchell and Webb's "Are We The Baddies?" sketch. It's on YouTube._


	3. Nachtisch

Karl volunteered for extra patrol duty on Christmas Day, hoping it would keep him out of the way of the boys in the motor pool. In any case, he had nothing better to do with his time, since by unanimous vote he had been excluded from the syndicate's Christmas dinner. Of course, as Corporal Hinkelmann, left without a main course to prepare for the contributors, had decided instead to treat them to his famous pigs' feet stewed in beer, being left out was not really a misfortune.

"Waste of good beer," grumbled the quartermaster to his clerk afterwards, as he mixed himself a large dose of bicarbonate.

The atmosphere in Barracks 2 was a little more festive, despite the faint air of disappointment which, at first, hung over the table. When it came to it, everyone seemed to enjoy LeBeau's version of the Vegetable Goose, prepared to a recipe which owed little to either Mrs Beeton or Granny Newkirk. For a start, he'd been unable to obtain a vegetable marrow, nor was he even quite sure what kind of an object it was. So he had filled a large pumpkin with his sage and onion stuffing, surrounded it with roast vegetables, and ensured there was plenty of Armagnac to follow it.

"It's a bit late for Halloween, isn't it?" observed Carter, somewhat sourly. He was still inclined to think that, had he been allowed to take part in the great goose hunt, this dinner would be a whole lot better; an attitude which didn't discourage him from clearing his plate, and coming back for seconds.

After the dessert of _clafoutis aux pruneaux et amandes_ (served with a _crème anglaise_ to keep Newkirk happy), when a comfortable state of post-prandial lassitude had settled across the barracks, LeBeau gathered up the kitchen scraps in a bucket and headed for the tunnel.

"Where are you off to?" asked Newkirk, rousing briefly from his nap.

"Just going to the compost heap in the woods," replied LeBeau.

"Didn't know we had one." But Newkirk was too drowsy to take much interest. He laid his head back down on his folded arms and closed his eyes.

Hogan, however, turned a speculative gaze on the cook. "Not sure I approve, LeBeau. Those SS men might still be hanging round. And you never really explained how you avoided them the last time?"

"Uh... they heard a noise in the woods and...and went to investigate." LeBeau felt himself blushing. He had felt duty-bound to tell Hogan about the Germans in the woods, but had made no mention of the goose's part in his escape.

"I'll be careful," he added. "It'll be a good chance to reconnoitre. You know, see if the Krauts are still there..." He trailed off, seeing the narrowing of Hogan's eyes.

"All right," said Hogan at last. "But keep your eyes open. I've got a feeling there's more out there than just Germans."

" _Oui, mon Colonel_." Flushing again, this time out of relief, LeBeau descended into the tunnel. A couple of minutes later, with the handle of the bucket hooked over his arm, he climbed out of the emergency exit in the woods, and set off in the direction of Schmeckhof.

He slowed down as he approached the clearing where last night's encounter had taken place. It looked undisturbed, apart from a few feathers scattered about; and Hans's pistol lying where he'd dropped it. Hans was going to have some explaining to do about how he'd lost it.

LeBeau pocketed the gun, and peered around.

"Are you still here?" he called softly.

There was no response at first, and in spite of himself, his heart sank. Then a small white shape emerged from the undergrowth, and waddled towards him.

"Hello," said LeBeau, feeling both reassured and a little foolish.

The goose stretched its neck, and gave its head a shake.

"I came to say thank you," LeBeau went on, "and to assure you that from now on ...What am I doing, talking to a goose? You don't have any idea what I'm saying, do you? But I will say it anyway. From now on, _mon ami_ , you're going to be safe here. Are you hungry? I've got something for you." He upended the bucket and scattered the vegetable scraps on the ground. "It's not much, but I'll bring you more, whenever I can."

For a couple of minutes, he watched the goose as it tucked in. Then he picked up his bucket, and started on the return trip. A short distance away, the sound of voices reached him through the trees, and he hastily took cover; but it was just the usual three-man guard patrol from Stalag 13. As soon as they were out of earshot, he went on his way.

The patrol hadn't gone much further before one of the guards stopped. "I think I have a pebble in my boot," he said. "You go on, I'll catch up."

"Do you want some help, Karl?" asked one of his companions.

"No, I can get it," replied Karl. "It will only take a minute."

He sat down on a fallen log and started pulling his boot off, but as the others went out of sight, he hastily yanked it back on, stood up and crept off in a new direction.

The goose was waiting for him. It waggled its tail feathers and toddled up to greet him with an affectionate nip on the fingers.

"Yes, I'm happy to see you, too." Karl gave the soft head a gentle caress. "Look what I have for you." He groped in his pocket and brought out a handful of heavy, dense bread which he had saved from his rations.

"As soon as I can, I'll get you some oats," he said. "And we'll have to find you a new home, away from the camp. Somewhere with a pond for you to swim in. But until then, keep out of sight. You understand?"

He patted its head again. "I have to go now, but I will come back tomorrow. Take care, little friend."

As he hurried off to rejoin the patrol, the goose gazed after him. Anyone who didn't know better might have thought there was a calculating look in its little black eyes. But of course, that would be nonsense.

After all, a goose is just a goose.


End file.
